Jonathan and Amy (2 page)

He was on his feet again, standing over at the window in a few strides. Amy took a bite of her sandwich. The bread had been made with white flour that very morning; the crusts had been cut away. The butter was fresh, the cheese tangy and soft; the ham carried a hint of smoke and sweetness.

Mr. Dolan's staff ate well enough, but if Amy went on this visit, she wouldn't be passing up seconds for the sake of peace at the servants' table, or skipping sweets to leave more for the maids and footmen. Three weeks of excellent food—Deene's household would offer commodious hospitality even to a governess—three weeks of away from the other Dolan servants' odd looks and sniffy asides, three weeks of fresh air and freedom from the schoolroom.

Three weeks of proximity to home and all Amy loved there…

“I will accompany Georgina to visit her uncle, but Mr. Dolan, if you and I are to share a meal, it's customary to do so seated in one another's company.” And while his profile and his manly physique were well worth study, so was his handsome countenance.

He turned, the wary expression back on his face. “You'll not change your mind? I will compensate you for giving up your scheduled holiday, of course, but if I tell Georgina you'll accompany us, you can't turn around and leave me—
us
—hanging.”

She fixed him another cup of tea with two sugars and a fat portion of cream, the way he liked it. “I'll not change my mind. A holiday from Georgina's studies probably has as much appeal for me as it does for her.”

Mr. Dolan abandoned his post by the window to resume his seat. “Georgina says you're a slave driver, but her French seems to be coming along.”

“She has a gift for languages. Another sandwich?”

“Please, and there's something else you should know.” He peered at his teacup as if perplexed as to how it had found its way into those big, capable hands of his.

“Out with it, Mr. Dolan. Prevarication might work with your business associates, but a governess is made of sterner stuff.”

He muttered something. Mother of God? Sometimes his voice shaded more toward a brogue, and the words were harder to distinguish.

“I'd like you to take on an additional pupil between now and when we depart for Surrey. I realize it's short notice, but I'll compensate you for the extra effort.”

“Mr. Dolan, you compensate me more than adequately, and while I appreciate your generosity, I have to wonder what this additional effort entails. Who is to be my new pupil?”

He continued to stare at his teacup. “Your new pupil is to be none other than myself.”

***

How hard could it be to pass a piece of paper into a woman's hand?

Jonathan asked himself this question as he marshaled his courage and surrendered his list into Amy Ingraham's keeping. Even putting pen to paper had made him queasy.

She scanned the document, and he knew exactly what she saw:

What is proper conduct when serving tea to another man?

How precisely does one offer and render escort to a lady in public?

Where is the order of precedence listed?

Why is thirty the usual number of guests at a dinner party?

How does a man properly assist a lady from a conveyance?

Under what circumstances,
if
any
, might a gentleman raise his voice?

On and on the reckoning went, a list of every mistake Jonathan had made since arriving to his wealth, every misstep, and not a few of his regrets. His late wife had tried, gently, for a time, to guide him into genteel behavior, but then even she had given up.

He could only hope Miss Ingraham viewed his list of humiliations as a pile of social straw she could spin into gold behind the closed doors of Jonathan's home.

She wrinkled her nose, which did not bode well for his aspiration as a pupil of gentlemanly deportment. “You want me to teach you to waltz?”

“Most assuredly.”

“But not the minuet, the gavotte, the polonaise, the other ballroom dances? Do you know the contredanses?”

“I know the parlor dances, and enough of the ballroom dances to get by. Most of them are such lumbering affairs they can be learned at sight, but the waltz is a recent addition to the ballrooms—” He looked down at his hands. The left bore the most scars, having been half smashed in a quarry accident when he was twelve. “I cannot fathom it.”

She started chattering about how simple the waltz was, while Jonathan watched her mouth and pondered the desperation of a man who'd stoop to such a subterfuge. The Irish engaged in several activities without limit—they worked like beasts, but when not working, they danced and sang. Some would say they also procreated, abused hard liquor, and prayed with equal fervor—some English.

“Mr. Dolan, are you paying attention?”

“I always pay attention to you, Miss Ingraham.” The words came out sounding like a rebuke, not a compliment or the simple truth, which they were. Given the state of his nerves, a rebuke was probably safest for them both.

“See that you do pay attention. We have only a week, and this is not a short list. I will need time to organize our approach.”

While Jonathan would need time to tie his hands behind his back lest he reach forward and touch her pretty, golden hair. In the morning sun, she wasn't merely blond. Her hair was shot with highlights of red, wheat, bronze, and more, indefinable colors that played along each individual strand. Spread out over a pillow, her hair would be an entire palette…

“I have a suggestion, Miss Ingraham.”

She arched a brow, all starchy business and brisk efficiency. No wonder Georgina's education was progressing at such a great rate.

“If we are to maximize the time between now and our departure, then it makes sense for you to take your meals with me.”

Such a delicate frown had Miss Ingraham. “That…does…make sense.”

And so reluctant. Jonathan's despair eclipsed the desire that simmered in his veins whenever he beheld his daughter's governess. “Only for a week, Miss Ingraham, and I assure you I will be on my best behavior.”

“Yes, you will.” She studied him until the corners of her mouth curved up and an
impish
light gleamed in her eyes. “Keeping you on your best behavior shall be my personal mission.”

And thus began his week of heaven—and hell.

She showed him how to tie his cravats in the more fashionable knots, though how she knew such things was a mystery. This exercise required her hands on his person, making it a wonder of biblical proportions that Jonathan mastered anything beyond the fussed-up reef knot he'd been using for years.

She lectured him through three meals a day plus tea—high bloody tea!—and gave him little books to read on the subject of table manners.

She inspected his turnout each morning and each time before he left the house, tugging on a shirtsleeve or adjusting his
boutonniere
. He was no longer permitted to refer to it as a
damned
posy
.

And then the real torment began.

“We must do something about your hair.” Miss Ingraham made this pronouncement at breakfast on Thursday, and their departure was scheduled for Saturday morning.

“You will not be parading me around all slicked down with grease and perfume, Miss Ingraham. I like my hair clean.”

While Georgina grinned at her eggs on Jonathan's left, Miss Ingraham sat back in her chair on his right, her expression alarmingly pensive. “You have lovely hair.” He did not roll his eyes, but her compliments always preceded some dire pronouncement, and she did not disappoint on this occasion. “Your hair is in want of a trim.”

“Then I shall cut it. More tea?”

She remained silent, until she leaned forward and feathered her fingers through his hair. “You have marvelously thick hair, and the color is unusual. Titian.”

Which meant however dark it was, it was still red, and thus the wrong color. She repeated the caress of her fingers through his hair, while Jonathan tried to ignore the pleasure of her touch.

In this, at least, the week had been successful: Amy Ingraham showed no more compunction about touching him than if he were a five-year-old boy and truly one of her charges.

“May I help cut Papa's hair?”

Jonathan spoke a bit too loudly. “Certainly not. Finish your eggs.”

“You may keep a curl for a locket,” Miss Ingraham said. The females exchanged a look, one Jonathan recognized, as any man with seven sisters would.

“You two are conspiring,” he said, pouring more tea for Miss Ingraham. “This does not bode well for my peace of mind. There are laws against conspiracies. Females plotting to overthrow the order of a man's household is likely some sort of felony. Old George sired six daughters. I can't believe he'd fail to address such potential unrest in his kingdom.”

“Papa's eggs are getting cold,” Georgina remarked to no one in particular.

“So are yours, young lady.”

“A gentleman never argues with a lady.” Miss Ingraham's expression was positively bored, while her gray eyes danced gleefully.

“She's an imp from h—the depths, not a lady. Not yet.” When Georgina grinned at him, Jonathan brushed his finger down her nose in a parody of a reprimand. “And a very pretty imp, too.”

He dawdled over his eggs and complained at length about being denied his newspaper at the breakfast table, but in the end, the ram went meekly, even willingly, to be shorn.

***

The week flew by, a whirlwind of moments for Amy to dread and then treasure, tumbling one right after another.

Mr. Dolan studied his own betterment with an intensity Amy found daunting. If she handed him a book on manners after dinner, he had it memorized by morning. If she suggested an outing to the park with Georgina for the sake of variety, he used it as an opportunity to practice everything, from his polite conversation to the proper means of handing a lady down from a vehicle.

“You haven't taught me to waltz, Miss Ingraham. If I'm someday to escort my daughter to social functions, I'll need that skill.”

Georgina had darted out of the breakfast parlor to take her dog to the garden, leaving Amy alone with her employer for much of the meal.

“Georgina won't be waltzing for another ten years,” she remarked. “You have plenty of time to learn.”

“Miss Ingraham—” He sounded as if he were going to sail into one of his well-reasoned, volume-escalating tirades that Amy so enjoyed, provided they were directed at others.

His jaw snapped closed. He touched his napkin to his lips. “Miss Ingraham, it's entirely likely Deene's marchioness will take it into her pretty head to have a da—a deuced ball in honor of this visit or some such rot. I will not be made a fool of for the sake of your faintheartedness.”

“Faintheartedness, Mr. Dolan?”

“You do not relish the idea of an Irish bear mincing around the da—the blasted ballrooms of proper—Mother of God.” On that exhalation, he leaned forward and used the side of his thumb to brush at the corner of Amy's lip. “You've a crumb…of toast.”

One more fleeting caress and he sat back, scowling mightily. “A toast crumb is distracting, and it's not in the rule books.”

Amy reached for her tea but didn't trust herself to bring the teacup to her mouth. The feel of his callused thumb grazing her skin so gently—a butterfly-soft thumb-kiss that sent warmth sizzling through her person—was more than a lady should have to bear without swooning.

“Sometimes, one must improvise, Mr. Dolan.”

“But a gentleman doesn't touch—”

Before she could stop herself, Amy placed a finger to his lips. “A gentleman can hardly allow a lady to be embarrassed by toast crumbs, can he? Moreover, you would not have used the same measures had Lady Deene been the one sporting a crumb, would you?”

He still looked a trifle tense. “Of course not. Deene would draw my bloo—my very cork. More tea, Miss Ingraham?”

Amy blinked at her teacup. He'd certainly taken to offering her tea, but even she had a limit for how much jasmine-scented libation she could down at one meal. “No, thank you.”

“So when do we waltz, Miss Ingraham?”

Amy did not want Georgina underfoot when they danced; she did not want the lesson to be hurried. She also did not want candlelight threatening her good sense beyond all recall. “Now, unless you have other plans?”

“I am at your service.” He rose and offered his bare hand as politely as if he'd been to the manor born. Amy made the trip through the house on his arm, allowing him to escort her through the hallways, up the stairs, and into the largest of the public parlors.

The week had seen a shift in this at least: he was no longer so wary of bodily proximity to her. When their hands brushed, when she took his arm, he no longer tensed at each and every contact.

And neither did she. Amy was learning to handle the flood of pleasure she felt when she was near him, learning to ignore the riot of sensations his scent and warmth provoked. His height and size, his expressions and intonations had become wonderfully familiar in a whole new way.

Mr. Dolan stopped in the middle of the parlor. “We'll need music.”

“Soon.” Amy dropped his arm. “First, we'll need the doors folded back and the rugs rolled up.”

While the footmen saw to the arrangements, Amy noted the subtle signs of unease in her pupil. He shot his cuffs, an indication that he'd rather roll them back. He ran his hand through his hair, his shorter locks making him frown each time he repeated the gesture. He paced, he looked out the window, he looked anywhere, in fact, but at her.

When the last footman withdrew to warn the housekeeper she might be needed at the piano, Amy approached the window. “Georgina is a lucky girl, Mr. Dolan. Not all parents are as devoted as you are.”

He glanced down at her. “I'm her father, of course I love her.”